


Piecemeal

by femmenerd



Series: Sadie 'Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-23
Updated: 2007-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:46:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1300492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmenerd/pseuds/femmenerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Stuck in the Middle With You." AU Future, branches off from canon very early on; no real spoilers past S1.</p><p> <i>Eight years is a long time, he thinks. A blur of monsters, new towns every week, thousands of cups of gas station coffee drunk and people saved, but despite changes in hair color–just one tone now, black–and swankier attire, Sadie’s still Sadie.</i></p><p>Originally posted on LJ <a href="http://femmenerd.livejournal.com/189237.html">[here].</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Piecemeal

Her reading’s at a tiny place with books on the floor and shelves up to the ceiling in a friendly, bibliophilic disarray. Sam sits in the corner, acutely aware of how his dusty jeans and canvas jacket stick out in the black-on-black, perfumed crowd. His knees knock against the table nervously as Sadie begins to speak, and at first he wonders what possessed him to come here in the first place. It’s been so long...

But when Sadie looks straight towards him from her podium perch, the questions stop and Sam just listens. Her voice rings out across a sea of attentive, wool-capped heads–she’s in her element. Of course, Sadie always did seem to make every place _hers_ , even back then when most of what she talked about was feeling out of place.

Eight years is a long time, he thinks. A blur of monsters, new towns every week, thousands of cups of gas station coffee drunk and people saved, but despite changes in hair color–just one tone now, black–and swankier attire, Sadie’s still Sadie. 

Soon there’s applause, wine and cheese, and then she’s making a beeline toward him.

“Sam Winchester!” she calls out, almost spilling wine on someone’s head in her haste. 

“Don’t you mean ‘Max?’” Sam asks, quirking his mouth and smiling at her like this isn’t the most surreal thing that’s happened to him in years.

Sadie bites her lip. “You read my book then. Are you mad?”

Sam shakes his head. “Of course not. That’s how I got here.”

Sadie flashes an enormous, gap-toothed grin. “You found me,” she says, gripping his arm tight. “I’m so glad.”

*

The steam heat in her apartment is turning the cramped, third-story walk-up tropical. Or maybe that’s just the squeeze and clench of Sadie’s rounded thighs around his torso. Either way, there’s lukewarm sweat dripping into Sam’s eyes, making it really fucking hard to see. 

And he wants to look at her–wants to see the changes in himself reflected back in the subtle shifts in Sadie’s features. He wants to pinpoint the fine lines by her eyes with his tongue and taste the years that’ve passed since they were baby-faced and terrified. Well, Sam was anyway. 

Her eyes are wide and glossy from too much Cabernet. Sadie knows about things like vintage and “good years” and shit like that now. Sam and Dean still drink generic beer–her world tastes different. 

Sadie licks her lips, lipstick half gone and vino-stained, and tilts her head back, still loud, still demanding. She fists the couch cushions and roars, “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Fuck. Sam. Fuck me.”

He breaks rhythm and laughs. Dips to her ear and says, “What does it look like I’m doing, huh?”

She giggle-grins up at him and retorts, “Words have power, Winchester. In this case, the power to get me off.”

So he tells her about how her cunt feels around him, tight and familiar, how he’s jerked off thinking about her for almost a decade. Little, half-gasp moans pour out of her mouth, punctuating his thrusts, and Sam feels triumphant for having finally, _finally_ , gotten Sadie at a loss for language. 

When they’re done, she lights a cigarette and lounges, stripped now to just her bra and the expensive, pointy-heeled shoes her teenage self would have laughed at. 

“You shouldn’t smoke,” he says wisely. 

She arches an eyebrow and takes a leisurely drag. “I named a dildo after you,” she says. “A really big one.” And he blushes like he’s seventeen again.

*

“I can’t believe we only did this once,” Sadie says, laughing, once they’ve finally made it to her bed.

“Hey, that wasn’t my fault,” Sam answers, tracing her hip with his fingertip. He’s glad she hasn’t starved away her curves, and tells her so with languid kisses. “I was a teenaged boy, and then you–you just left...”

Sadie’s quiet then, breathing into his still-parted lips. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam stutters. “I mean, I understood. Did you find what you were looking for?” 

“I hope I’ll always be looking for something,” she deflects. “That way I’ll never get bored.”

After that, they both go silent for a stretch, and for a moment Sam loses track of the backlog of time between now and when she was his only friend not related to him by blood. Their tangled nudity feels simple and warm. Normal. Even though neither one of them ever really had any hope of being _that_. Not Sadie with her dreams and her honesty. Certainly not Sam with his secrets and his mission. 

He wishes then that he could tell her that he’s given up on “normal” by now, but he can’t, so instead Sam coughs and breaks the spell. “My life is...complicated.”

She nods slowly, stroking the raised pink scar-flesh on the inside of his thigh.

“Aren’t you going to ask questions?” 

There’s a surprise hint of pleading in his voice, but Sadie just purses her lips and says, “No, not this time.”

*

Sadie snores. She drinks Earl Grey tea with honey, extra-light. She likes to keep the fan on all night. These are the minutiae you learn about your lovers when there’s no curfew, when you’re an adult–the sort of things Sam hasn’t known about any woman since Jess. He watches Sadie snuffle in her sleep, wondering what other new eccentricities she’s developed since high school, pushing back regret. 

Eventually he shakes her gently, whispering, “Don’t get up. I just–I have to go. Dean called...”

Sadie yawns, holding a hand up to shield him from her morning breath. “So it’s back to your life of mystery?”

“Um, yeah. But Sadie, I...” 

She puts a finger to his lips. “Shhhh. I have an idea. One year from now, you and me, same time, same place. What do you say?” 

Sadie still wants to live her life like it’s a book, and just like when she used to convince him to sneak into the movies, fool around hot and heavy in the janitor’s closet during fourth period, or cast the movie adaptations of their lives (She’d be Kate Winslet–they never decided on someone tall enough for Sam), Sam agrees to her crazy plans.

~o~

_We’re all just collections of stories–memory’s all about plot._

*

The next time Sam tells Dean why they _have_ to be in New York City on February first.

“No shit? I remember her. The weird girl–you popped her cherry and then she skipped town, right?” Dean said, slurping coffee and scanning the map. 

“ _Dean._ " 

“It’s cool, man. We can take a break. There’s this strip club...”

When Sam relates this conversation to Sadie she peels into laughter for almost ten minutes. “Gotta say, Sam. You’re the only one of my exes who ended up with his brother.”

Sam rolls his eyes and grabs her around the waist from behind, hands trembling because he’s been _waiting_ for this. He pulls her hair away from her neck–dark red now–and growls, “Dean told me to fuck you the first time he saw you. I believe his words were, ‘Hit that shit.’”

Sadie giggles again and Sam feels pounds of weight roll off his shoulders. 

“Wow, I’m flatttered. _Dean Winchester_ –he was totally the hottest guy in town,” she sing-songs into Sam’s chest, swinging herself around. 

Sam opens his mouth in mock-offense, loosely shaking her off. Sadie nuzzles up into him, craning her face up. “But you were the _best_ boy in town."

Sam stares down at her long and hard after that, touching Sadie’s freshly-washed face. “C’mere,” he manages to get out, and then she’s jumping into his arms and the kisses silence everything else.

*

They’re making nachos in the middle of the night. The microwave dings and Sadie does a little butt dance, raising her arms up. “Yes!” 

Sam’s pushes his hair off his face and watches her, wishing this wasn’t their last night. 

“What?” Sadie exclaims. “I get excited about snacks. Plus, you wore me out.”

“Nothing,” he replies, trying to bring his smile back. “You’re beautiful. And I have this bad feeling I’ve never told you that before.”

“Maybe not with words...” she says playfully, and goes for his crotch, eliciting a groan. “Come on. Let’s take this cheesy goodness back to the bedroom. Some fuel and I might not be done with you yet.”

“I meant it,” Sam whispers into her inner thigh later on, when the remnants of chips and salsa have long been discarded to the floor. Sadie cries out as he moves his head up, and it sounds like maybe she believes him. Sam watches her face as she makes lusty, hurt sounds, her cheeks flushing pink as her pussy under his tongue, and unbidden thoughts surface about how every other woman he’s touched lately doesn’t quite measure up. They didn’t know him _before_.

*

“My dad died when I was twenty-three,” Sam finds himself saying at five AM when Dean’s coming back for him at ten the next day. “It really screwed me up.”

Sadie kisses his forehead lightly as Sam continues. “But not as bad as it was for Dean. For awhile there...” And then he stops and lets her hold his head against her chest, rocking him even though he’s so big and it was so long ago.

“He was always nice to me,” Sadie coos, fitting her small hand into Sam’s fist. And Sam remembers a barbecue one night during senior year on the back porch, and how John confused Sadie with his guffaws at her every other word. Luckily she was never the kind of girl to get mad when people found her funny when she didn’t mean to be. It’s with that bittersweet, rare memory that he falls asleep. 

In the morning, Dean is smirking in the hallway as Sadie gets up on tippy-toes to kiss Sam goodbye in bare feet and a ratty old pink bathrobe. They have miles to go before they’ll reach the next job.

~o~

_The prettiest boy I ever met has streaks of grey now in his dark hair–does this mean I’m a grown-up?_

*

“How many questions do I get?” Sadie asks as she stirs the soup. 

“As many as you want...but I might not be able to answer them all,” Sam says, sitting down and warming his socked feet on the radiator vent. 

“Okay. So, you went to Stanford in the end, right?” she begins, adding salt and pepper to taste. 

“Yeah, but I didn’t stay.” She raises an eyebrow. “Family stuff, you know.”

Sadie nods. “I ended up going to college after all.” She laughs. “Of course, now I still wait tables to pay the rent.”

“But your book?”

“Did all right for what it was, but this is New York City and rent’s not cheap, plus I refuse to put on hose and work in an office. Maybe the next one will be my meal ticket. We’ll see.” Sadie’s bustling around her tiny kitchen, holding out a wooden spoon. “Here, taste this. It’s my grandma’s potato leek. Pretty much the only thing I can usually make properly.” 

Sam tastes dutifully, palming her ass with both hands when he’s done. “Grandma would be proud.” 

Sadie leans down, touching her lips to his. It’s their first kiss this time, and once again, it feels familiar yet almost-new. “Mmmm,” she says, pulling away and futzing with his hair. “Okay, no more distractions for now. I’m learning you.” She places one hand on her hip, inspecting. “What do you have faith in?”

“My brother,” Sam says automatically, then laughs. “You aren’t fucking around here, are you?”

“I never do,” Sadie says, and reaches for the ladle.

~o~

_I’m not afraid of being hurt anymore. Not enough time for it really._

*

They’re feeding pigeons in the park when Sadie asks, “Have you had your heart broken?”

Sam stares into the water, and feels relieved that he can tell her most of the truth. “There was a girl in California. She died.” He grabs a handful of bread crumbs and throws them as far as he can, meeting her eyes as they scatter. “Have you?”

“More times than I have fingers,” Sadie says softly. “But not like that.”

*

One summer there’s a poltergeist upstate so Sam shows up randomly in Brooklyn afterwards on the fourth of July, this time with Dean as well. 

“Is this okay?” he asks Sadie on the phone. 

“That’s a stupid question, Samuel Winchester,” she says, and gives him her new address. “I’m glad you called.”

They all drink beer on top of her roof and watch the fireworks from lawn chairs. Dean calls her “sweetheart” and pretends to be jealous when Sam and Sadie slip into her bedroom and he claims the couch. 

“You two are traveling salesmen, huh?” Sadie asks as Sam’s pulling off his pants. 

“Don’t make me lie to you,” he pleads, and turns off the light.

~o~

_He was the most honest liar I’d ever met._

*

Sam almost tells her everything. Several times actually. 

The first time, Sadie’s sucking him off, her lips plump and spit-shiny around his cock. Sam closes his eyes and remembers the first time she ever did this. It was in the bedroom he shared with Dean–as usual, they were supposed to be studying. Sadie was awkward and enthusiastic then, clumsy with nowhere near enough suction but he came almost instantly anyway. She’s a veritable blowjob champion now–knows his buttons, how to keep him in limbo if she wants–but the memory blasts through all Sam’s layers and he’s spilling into her hot and fast despite her teasing games. 

After, he strokes her hair and waits for the words to flow, feeling the truth like an inevitability on the tip of his tongue. But Sadie’s body is wracked with ladylike snores by the time Sam’s ready to talk. 

Another time, they’re walking to buy groceries and she’s talking about her new job, bubbling over as she waves her hands in the air. No more waitressing–Sadie’s got a gig as an editor at the same place that’s publishing her second book. Poetry this time. For a second, it just seemed like the thing to do–trade work stories.

After they kill the demon is when Sam comes the closest to ‘fessing up. But he’s still not ready to stop hunting–doesn’t know how after all this time–and after spending almost an entire night tossing and turning and soaking her flannel sheets with indecisive sweat, he loses a coin toss with himself. Sadie’ll meet the right guy some day–he can’t imagine why she wouldn’t–and Sam doesn’t want to screw that up. 

*

Of course, the next time Sam comes through town, she has. 

The tea kettle’s shrieking when he shows up at her door. Sadie sits Sam down on the couch, pushes a cup of peppermint at him, and starts gnawing at her bottom lip. She moves her hand back and forth between her unlipsticked mouth and his knee. It’s weird–Sam’s never seen Sadie afraid to _talk_ before. 

Finally, Sadie spills. “I have to tell you something, Sam. I’m seeing someone, and I don’t know entirely what it is yet or anything. But this time we can’t–”

“It’s okay,” Sam says, and he really wants it to be. She deserves to be happy.

“Okay,” she breathes out, and looks grateful. Rattled.

Sam cups her still-twitching hand in one of his and says seriously, “Sadie, you could have told me this on the phone instead of stressing yourself out like you obviously have been.” He’s trying to be helpful, logical.

She looks down at their hands for a moment, testing the weight of Sam’s palm in her own like she doesn’t know it. “I was afraid you might not come,” she says softly.

“That’s...no,” he says, and hugs her. 

*

They go out to a club, somewhere smoky and dark and jazzy. All of her friends are there. Some of them Sam’s met in passing over the years, but mostly not. They always hid out, him and Sadie. Sadie’s shiny and glowing–black dress and blushing cleavage, high spirited cheeks complemented by the streaks in her dark hair, pink this time. Love becomes her, Sam thinks. 

It’s a good visit overall, like always. And it’s not that he doesn’t still _want_ to fuck her, but when Sam’s driving back to meet Dean he just keeps remembering how Sadie introduced him to her people that first night: “This is Sam Winchester. He’s my best friend.”

That’s something. It really is.

~o~

_We speak–live–in fragments; they don’t all have to add up perfectly._

*

Sam keeps coming back, after the “someone she’s seeing” becomes her boyfriend, becomes the guy Sadie lives with, becomes his friend too.

He takes her with him when Dean gets married out on an old farm upstate to a shy girl mechanic they met during a job, and only gripes for a second when she forces him to dance with her to Led Zeppelin. 

He comes back when she calls him up in the middle of the night blubbering inarticulately about how she’s alone again. Sam drives for ten hours straight to get there but still doesn’t go to sleep until Sadie does–wrapping her up in tired, platonic arms until, finally worn out by her sadness, she passes out. In the morning, Sam makes coffee and dumps in sugar and cream until almost any hint of coffee taste has been washed out in sweetness–just how she likes. Sadie’s eyes are puffy when he brings it to her, but she’s calmer, and he stays until she laughs again–comes back when he’s the one who needs to cry. 

*

The day Sam finally explains his scars is anticlimactic, and he realizes that what he’d always imagined as a statement was really a series of questions all along: Will you...could you...am I...if I show you? 

They’re half-answered already. He wants to move on to more banal issues like what her original hair color actually is–Sam still doesn’t know that.

*

“How does this story end?” he asks when they fall into bed with each other again. 

“I still don’t know, Sam,” she sighs.

*

_But as long as you’re writing this with me, I don’t care._


End file.
